


A Little More Real

by Phoenike



Series: That Which Remains [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, I tagged fluff and angst but mostly this is just fluff, M/M, Markus (Detroit: Become Human) Plays the Piano, Minor Original Character(s), and Simon being his usual anxious self
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27913930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenike/pseuds/Phoenike
Summary: Markus wants to take the next step with Simon.(Some fluff I wrote earlier this year for my fic That Which Remains. This should be pretty easy to follow without having read TWR. I tried to avoid big spoilers for the main story.)
Relationships: Markus/Simon (Detroit: Become Human)
Series: That Which Remains [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1294913
Comments: 11
Kudos: 33





	A Little More Real

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to finally post this, since I've been struggling so long with the last chapter(s) of the main fic. Basically all you need to know is that Simon shot himself on the Stratford Tower roof and spent a long time being dead. Markus, who became something of a religious icon after a peaceful Revolution, leads an organization called The Android Union and sits in the CyberLife board of directors.
> 
> Thank you as always to my beta readers, Alessariel and Tennyo <3
> 
> Just in case someone cares, here's a Youtube playlist I created for myself while writing this, it contains the pieces I mention in the fic: [youtube.com/playlist?list=PL9GCoBPGe8ESUOcMR8vvyLQDuVEANOHH-](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL9GCoBPGe8ESUOcMR8vvyLQDuVEANOHH-)

Somewhere around 4 minutes 39 seconds into the third piece, Simon decides that something is up. Usually when Markus sits at the piano, the result is a baffling rollercoaster of avant-garde improvisation, impenetrable for someone of his limited musical experience. Today — 

_Why are you only playing things that I like?_ he sends over the wireless. It’s easier than shouting. Built for the concert hall, Markus’s great black Steinway isn’t exactly on the quiet side.

 _I am?_

Affective analysis classifies the tone of Markus’s reply as amused-happy-satisfied.

For once, the spacious loft at the top of the CyberLife Tower is lit with daylight instead of artificial illumination. Three weeks after his return, Simon is still mainly able to spend time with Markus while most humans are asleep. Sometimes whole days pass without Markus being able to take a break at all. But right now, the sun is shining, the sky is blue... really, with just a bit more brain damage, Simon might be able to forget where exactly they’re casually spending time.

Often it’s still difficult to believe that this is where life has brought him. To Markus’s home, filled with colorful art and a breathtaking view over the river toward downtown Detroit — and Markus himself, whenever he’s not out fighting to create a future for their people. Sometimes, it still feels like a revival sickness induced hallucination. The sentiment goes away when they’re together, and returns when they’re apart.

Simon puts down his tablet and pushes up to sit on the sofa he’s been lying on. Designer made, it’s a unique piece of art like everything else in the loft, except for his very own mass-produced self.

_How do you even know what music I like?_

Markus keeps playing, a picture of easy sophistication with his sleeves rolled up, his collar unbuttoned and his hands flying over the keys.

_That’s easy. You stop reading and start staring at me._

Oh. So, Markus does keep looking. Simon’s core temperature goes up .36 degrees Celsius.

Markus goes on. _I’ve been training an algorithm. Currently, I can predict your enjoyment of a composition to a .92 probability._

Simon looks up the audio fingerprint of the piece Markus is playing. The query comes up with a 98.82% match to: Sergei Rachmaninoff, Piano Concerto No. 2 in C Minor, Op. 18, First Movement.

 _This should be performed with an orchestra,_ Markus sends. _Sorry about that._

Simon narrows his eyes. _How dare you subject me to a subpar experience._

The dumb joke hardly deserves to be laughed at the way Markus does.

No longer particularly interested in the book he was reading, Simon gets up and walks over to stand behind Markus’s shoulder and watch him play.

He sorely doubts that late Romantic classical music is what Markus enjoys performing the most. For what he knows, Markus’s own taste runs to random noise layered over more random noise. Still, to someone possessed of less rarefied tendencies, it sounds divine.

“So, what kind of music do I like?” Simon asks once the level of sound goes down a bit.

“Emotional. You’re a bit of a softy, aren’t you?”

Simon snorts.

Inside, he’s giddy about the teasing. For the first week or two, Markus treated him like one wrong word might cause him to disappear into thin air, and if there’s anything Simon can’t stand the thought of, it’s that he could be adding even more stress to Markus’s life.

“I made a list,” Markus continues. “Of the pieces I’ve played before, 94 have a minimum 95% probability of matching your preferences. For example —” Seamlessly, the dramatic concerto segues into something far more delicate. “This was one of Carl’s favorites.”

Claude Debussy, ‘Reflets dans l’eau’.

“How many pieces can you play, exactly?”

“I don’t know.”

“How is that possible?”

“I’m able to reproduce any piece of music I hear. But I wouldn’t say that I really know all of them, since there’s more to performing them than just the notation.”

Playing by ear like Mozart? Well, it’s not like Simon imagined Markus was downloading song packs from the CyberLife owner portal with names like ‘Piano for Kids 1-9’ and ‘Easy Home Listening’.

For 2 minutes 8 seconds more, he just listens. It no longer bothers him to be subjected to Markus’s usual style of playing — apparently, his love of Markus has come to include ear-grating musical experiments — but it would be lying to say that his audio processors do not vastly prefer the performance he’s being treated to right now.

“Here’s another one Carl often asked me to play.” The music changes again, into something intricate that has Markus’s hands jumping over each other on the keys. Maurice Ravel, ‘Ondine’, from a series of tonal poems called ‘Gaspard de la nuit’.

“Carl had a bit of a soft spot for the impressionists,” Markus says with a smile that quickly falters.

“I think I understand why Carl wanted you to play this,” Simon says after a while.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Well, it’s insanely difficult, and I’m under the impression Carl enjoyed pushing your limits.”

“We’re androids. With a little practice, you could do this, too.”

“Sure. And maybe then I could invent a cold fusion reactor while I’m at it.”

Markus turns to gaze up at him. “It’s not _that_ difficult,” he says, no longer looking at the keys his fingers keep cascading on.

Simon folds his arms on his chest.

“And now you’re just showing off.”

Markus continues to play flawlessly, eyes glinting green and blue in a way they never quite do at nighttime. “Now why would I do that?”

“I have no idea. It’s complete overkill.”

“Oh?”

Simon squints at the beautiful idiot in front of him.

“I’ve never tried playing with my hands behind my back,” Markus muses. “That sounds like an amusing parlor trick.”

When Simon starts laughing, Markus’s smile widens into a grin. Mission apparently accomplished, he turns back to the instrument. The music flowing from it sparkles and shimmers like sunlight on ripples of water.

“I meant what I said,” Markus says. “You could learn to do this, too, if you wanted.”

“Perhaps, if it was only about hitting the right notes.”

“The rest is just interpretation.”

“There’s nothing ‘just’ about it and you know it.”

Markus’s voice softens. “Oh, Simon. If you could see yourself like I do, you would know there’s nothing ‘just’ about you, either.”

For a moment, Simon couldn’t utter a single word if his life depended on it.

How does it come so easily for Markus to say such things? Inquiring minds truly want to know. Markus is the most amazing person Simon has ever met by a wide margin, but no matter how badly he wants to express it, the sentiment never seems to find its way into words he would feel confident enough about to voice.

Markus picks another piece to play.

“Chopin. Very emotional.”

It’s not The Carpenters, but it has potential.

After a couple of more tries at music Simon might like, both of which serve to further prove that Markus’s algorithm is working, Markus sighs in a way Simon knows all too well.

“Recall is coming to get me soon.”

The pang of disappointment isn’t exactly novel, either. As always, Simon keeps it to himself. A few hours here, a couple there — but still, outside of Markus’s team, he’s allowed to spend more time with Markus than anyone. He tries not to get greedy. He tries not to bother Markus with demands for something Markus won’t be able to give.

“I thought you were leaving at six?”

He’s proud of how normal it sounds. Not whiney at all.

Markus keeps playing, but in a more subdued tone, like he’s dedicating less processing power to the task.

“Apparently, I’m seeing Senator Horn about the Housing Committee proposal at four thirty.”

“On a Sunday? You only got back two hours ago, are they trying to work you to an early shutdown?”

Too late, Simon realizes he might have crossed a line. His opinion about the Union and how they’re using Markus aside, who is he to tell Markus what he should do? For all he knows, Markus _wants_ to be worked to death. But to his relief, Markus doesn’t appear annoyed. Instead, he looks at Simon with — pleasure-happiness-guilt. Love?

“You can stay here, if you want.”

It’s what Markus always says, and Simon always gives him the same answer.

“It’s fine, I have things to do.”

He doesn’t have things to do. Only a few details remain to be arranged for the upcoming fundraiser. He has been remotely helping to manage things in Shelter Three, but there’s no way he can actually work there anymore, not with the residents knowing who he is and where he came from. The Union projects he’s slated for haven’t begun, and with all of CyberLife’s resources now at his disposal, the studies required have so far totaled 26 minutes 11 seconds of download and installation time. So, for days or weeks now, he has found himself with little to do. And doing nothing has never been something he’s good at.

Maybe he should start using his hibernating feature again. But where? The streets haven’t magically emptied of dangerous gangs since he left.

Still, any of that is hardly something Markus should inconvenience his already overtaxed processing with.

“I know I haven’t asked you before,” Markus says, still idly playing. “But where are you staying now?”

No, Markus hasn’t asked. And for the most part, Simon knows he only has himself to blame for that. He hasn’t exactly been forthcoming about his situation.

“Well, technically —”

When he falters, Markus gives him a puzzled look.

“I’m not,” Simon concludes.

After 34 minutes 19 seconds of continuous playing, the sudden silence when Markus stops sounds louder than the Rachmaninoff did.

With a move as graceful as everything he does, Markus swivels on the piano bench to face him. Simon can’t quite bring himself to look him in the eye. Sometimes it’s still overwhelming to find himself the target of Markus’s full attention.

“What do you mean?” Markus asks, a small furrow etched between his brows. “Did Leland talk to you?”

Leland from General Services for the Android Union. A most helpful person.

“He talked. I, uh. Said no.”

“Why?”

“I don’t need a bodyguard.” Yet, anyway. “Or anyone to check where I live. There’s nothing to check. Mostly I just stay at random places.”

“What random places?”

“The headquarters, if I can think of a reason. Sometimes I visit my friend Maddox. There are libraries that let androids buy tokens to use the wifi. And — I found a church. The people there keep trying to tell me about Jesus, but other than that, they’re nice.”

Markus still looks like he’s unable to compute what Simon is talking about. And why should he be able to compute it? He only ever had to live rough for about a week.

Seems like there’s no way around just saying it.

“I don’t have a place to stay, Markus. Two months ago, I was hiding from strip gangs in dumpsters. I can’t live in the shelter anymore, not with everyone there knowing who I am. And I don’t have money to pay rent.”

At last, Markus’s state-of-the-art processors seem to catch on.

“You’re _homeless?”_

“Technically, yes.”

“Oh no. Oh, Simon. I’m so sorry, I didn’t —”

“Please don’t,” Simon blurts. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I will have to get angry with you, and I can’t.”

With anyone else, the silence that follows would be excruciating.

Then Markus nods. And — that’s that, thank god.

“But why don’t you just stay here, then?”

“Markus, in case you haven’t noticed, we’re in _the CyberLife Tower._ This —” Simon gestures at the luxurious loft around them, with its billion-dollar view, neo-symbolic paintings, abstract sculptures and design furniture. “The only thing I can even remotely stand here is you. When you’re not around? I would rather lie bleeding in a ditch.”

“Oh.”

Truth is, the first time Simon saw the place, he didn’t know what to think. How could Markus live like this when their people were dying on the streets? It took a while for him to accept the explanation: that the loft already existed when Markus arrived, and that the art was a gift from Carl, to be sold should they ever need the cash. In fact, almost everything Markus owns is a gift, from his designer clothes to his $300,000 Steinway to the loft itself.

Only lately has Simon started to understand the more complicated reason for Markus’s ostentatious lifestyle. In a world that worships money, such gestures matter — and Markus is not just a person. He’s a symbol of what androids can achieve. This, too, is something the Union is using him for: the air of privilege he absorbed from Carl.

It’s not possible for androids to sense each other’s processing without an open interface, but Simon suspects that if Markus still had his LED, it would be skittering the yellow-yellow-yellow of rapid computation.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Markus asks.

“Because if you told me we’re going to hell, I would ask you when.”

The answer comes out sounding more frustrated than intended, and for 7.248 seconds, Markus just stares at him.

Then Markus gets on his feet and starts gently tugging Simon’s hands away from where he has tucked them under his arms in a pathetic self-hug. It ends up with said hands held against Markus’s chest. Through Markus’s shirt (dove-grey 180s cotton) Simon can sense the artificial life humming inside: the thirium pump pumping, the blue blood rushing, the currents running.

“Simon,” Markus says softly. “Would you like to live with me?”

Simon blinks.

“I want to be with you,” Markus continues. “And if you’re willing, I would like for that to include living together.”

Finally, Simon finds his synthesizer again.

_“Here?”_

“Of course not, you just told me you hate it. We will find some other place. Mind you, it won’t be a dumpster. Those things aren’t big enough for us and my piano.”

Simon’s processor load peaks at 99.8%. “You’re serious.”

“I’m always serious with you.”

... Right.

“My team can help with the practical side of things,” Markus says. “Since I don’t have a lot of free time, could you go through the options and pick a few places for us to tour?”

“I —”

Simon closes his eyes for a moment, to try and get a grip without the distraction of Markus’s face taking up 31% of his available CPU.

Well, it _has_ been a while since Markus last pulled the rug from under him. 6 days 4 hours 17 minutes, to be exact. Then again, after orchestrating the liberation of all androids in under a week... maybe Simon should be surprised that it took even this long.

“I haven’t yet agreed to the idea, you know,” he manages.

“Ah.” Markus half-laughs, self-conscious in a way he never shows to cameras or reporters. “I suppose we can also get you an apartment, if you wish.”

“What? No, you can’t put something like that on your expense account.”

“I don’t need to, CyberLife pays me more than enough to spare the down payment. And the moment the media gets wind of you, the Union will want to step in, anyway.”

“But with you in the chairman’s seat, people will think—” Something in Simon’s abdominal compartment twists at the idea. “Markus, you can’t buy things for me.”

“I can, and I want to.”

“Even if that’s technically true, I would prefer if you didn’t.”

Saying so of course means that he will have to start earning money of his own. In many respects, working for the Union isn’t that far removed from living at Markus’s expense, but at least Simon will have his own bank account and can do something worthwhile toward earning his keep.

“I need to know you’re safe,” Markus says, wistful, and looking like he’s trying to hide it. “That’s not something I’m willing to compromise. But... I suppose it’s easy for me to get too excited when it comes to you. I know I should give you space, and I will. Just remember that if there’s anything you need, all you have to do is ask, okay? If not from me, then Recall, I’m sure she would love to —”

“Markus, please stop.”

Markus does, the look on his face half worried, half melancholy. Between them, he’s still holding Simon’s hands to his chest, where his thirium pump keeps beating at 68 per minute, slightly elevated for how they’re just standing around without doing much.

“Of course I will move in with you,” Simon says.

The way Markus’s face lights up is worth everything.

Simon shakes his head. “I’m not insane. I want to be with you, too. And that means it’s only rational to —”

Markus kisses him.

After three weeks, Simon is at least no longer in danger of going into full kernel panic every time it happens.

“Not here, though,” Markus says, after.

It takes an eternity of 2.420 seconds for Simon to recall what they were talking about. Markus is now holding him close with an arm around his waist, and the continued full-body contact is doing weird things to his cognitive processing.

“No. Sorry. It’s —”

“I know.” Markus glances around. “This place felt like a good idea, once. But I suppose the point has been made.”

“Yeah. Remember what I said about overkill?”

Markus laughs, in a way that makes the most deviant part of Simon’s programming warm with more happiness than any music ever could.

“I’ve gotta warn you, though,” Markus says. “Rory won’t love it. Someone once told me that the only time they feel relaxed is when I’m behind an electric fence, three security checks and at least two details of armed guards.”

Simon isn’t surprised to hear that about Markus’s head of security, at all.

“You know, Rory has a point. On second thought, let’s just stay here until the heat death of the universe.”

He’s joking, but no way does Markus not hear the anxiety hidden between the lines.

“We can be safe in other places, too.”

“Not this safe.”

“I’ve promised to be careful. I’m not about to back down on that promise.”

“Please don’t. If something happens to you —”

“Hey. Know what else Rory said? That they’re gonna make sure you stick around, because ever since you returned, I’ve actually started listening to what they say.”

“Thank rA9 for that.”

“You don’t believe in rA9.”

“I will, if it keeps you from taking unnecessary risks.”

Markus smiles. “I had to survive ten months without you. I plan to function for a long while to make up for it. A hundred years might be a good start. And then —”

Simon can’t listen. If he listens to any more of Markus’s daft promises, he will start malfunctioning. So, he uses the method that has so far proved the most effective for shutting Markus up.

“— I can do that, too,” Markus mumbles against his mouth, still smiling, and kisses him back.

By the time they’re holding hands to interface, Simon’s AI engine is doing things so strange that, not that long ago, he would have assumed he’s being hacked.

It took a lot of courage, at first, to give Markus the kind of access he’s now asking. Even now, Simon can only do it after suppressing a pang of conditioned panic. With his administrator overrides, Markus could read anything from his memory, or attach a runtime debugger and overwrite every variable in his processing. On a technical level, it’s not that different from what the RK-800 (Connor, Simon reminds himself; the RK-800 does have a name, and he should use it) did to him in Stratford Tower. The purpose is just mind-bendingly different.

The question comes through the maelstrom of the open connection, not as words, just a voice that is unmistakably Markus.

_\- - - can I? - - -_

_\- - - please - - -_

What happens next is as incredible and impossible to understand as always.

When 3 minutes 12 seconds later Markus starts to ease back, 76% of Simon’s processes have restarted. One more, and he will have to install a new mod to remember how to walk. Not that it wouldn’t still be worth it.

Again, Markus’s voice finds him.

 _\- - - Recall is at the door - - -_

It’s an enigma how Markus can still observe his surroundings while he’s doing what he does. Even if he’s not doing it to _himself,_ Simon can tell he experiences its effects through the connection. How on earth does that still leave him enough resources to receive and analyze input from his external sensors? Simon is relatively certain that someone could disassemble him while they’re deep interfacing, and he wouldn’t notice a damn thing.

Sometimes, he wishes they could always stay connected. It makes things simple. It’s only when they disconnect that the world starts looking complicated again.

After several weeks, he’s still not sure which part is the lie.

Simon is sorting out the last of his tangled processing when Markus’s personal assistant walks in, resplendent in killer heels and an asymmetric red dress that sets out her dark skin and slender, sexless build.

“Good afternoon, sir. Simon.”

“Recall, we’re buying a house,” Markus announces happily.

“Congratulations.” Warm but not particularly surprised, the ST-500 sets down a garment bag on a nearby table and starts unzipping it. “Does the property you’re referring to already exist, or should I make arrangements?”

“Yeah, we’re going to need a real estate agent. Do you know any?”

“I might have ideas.”

When Markus starts unbuttoning his shirt, Simon develops a sudden interest in the view from the windows.

“What manner of house are you thinking about?” Recall asks.

“If the other stakeholder in this project doesn’t mind, I will let him decide. Simon?”

“Sure,” Simon mutters. Going by the sounds, Markus is opening his belt. “I mean — yes, I suppose I have the time.”

“You know,” Markus says, laughter in his voice. “If we’re going to live together, you will have to get over this little problem of yours. You can watch. Recall is watching.”

“I’m not,” Recall says, her contralto voice dry. “I’m simply not looking away.”

“There’s a difference?”

“One is something I can do on the job, the other is not.”

Markus is right, of course. They’re not sexual beings, the sight of what humans would consider intimate body parts should not affect him. The only reason it does in Simon’s case is CyberLife’s overly conservative programming, which he’s frankly long overdue to break.

Maybe soon, he will. For now, it’s disconcerting enough to know through a scan exactly which parts Markus has been installed with.

The high-collared dark suit Recall brought for Markus is conventional of line but not of construction, in the same expensive, understated style that most of his clothing now represents. Markus looks fantastic in it, but what else is new? Sometimes it’s difficult for Simon not to worry how his own lack of polish might reflect on Markus’s public image. Once the news about them breaks, people _will_ compare them — and it won’t be in Simon’s favor. Words like ‘hobo’ and ‘slumming’ will no doubt be flung about.

“What’s wrong?” Markus asks, concerned again, because evidently falling in love has a way of turning one into an open book of Emotions.

“I guess I just wish I didn’t always have to share you with fifty-three million other people.”

As soon as the words are out, Simon wishes he could detach his synthesizer and step on it. The startled way Markus looks at him seems to confirm how badly he just blundered.

He winces. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to complain, I—”

With three long strides, Markus is in front of him.

Simon fights down an urge to turn away. Because — what right does he have to demand comfort from someone so important? To monopolize Markus’s time and attention? He should be thankful for what he’s getting, not selfishly insisting on more.

“Hey,” Markus says, puzzled-anxious-gentle. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Simon grates out. “I’m a complete disaster when I’m not with you, and — I used to be the one who comforted others, how did I get so needy?”

 _“You’re_ needy?” Markus laughs and puts a hand to the side of his face. “You?”

Simon resists the cue to look. “I won’t be a burden. I can’t, I — you have too much to worry about, already.”

Two hands, now, left and right of his face, and there’s no more turning away. When Simon sees the way Markus looks at him, his thirium pump regulator starts working funny.

“Is this why you so rarely call or message me?” Markus asks softly. “Why you keep such a tight control when we interface?”

Simon glances over at Recall, who has withdrawn to stand at a somewhat discreet distance. Embarrassed, he nods.

Markus lets out a thoughtful hum.

“And here I thought I needed to give you more space. I... don’t understand. Can’t you read it when we’re connected? How I feel about you?”

“It’s — a lot. What I read from you. I don’t always know _how_ to read it.”

“Well, then I will just have to tell you about it until you do. Do you have any idea how much I think about you when you’re away? That as soon as I leave, I will count milliseconds until I see you again?”

Simon struggles to say something half sane.

“That sounds distracting.”

“I’m capable of parallel processing.”

Of course Markus is. He can probably run three separate levels of cognitive awareness without getting the least bit confused.

“Simon, don’t you see? You needing me is a _good thing,_ because maybe that means I’m allowed to need you, too. And —” Markus laughs, like he’s even now surprised about it. “I do. So much. The way I’ve tried to keep from asking too much from you, I was going crazy with it.”

He’s going to cry. What did he ever do to deserve this?

“Twenty days and sixteen hours,” Markus says, because apparently he’s not done turning Simon into a discombobulated mess. “And already, I wonder how I remained sane without you.”

As deeply as it disconcerts him, Simon can’t say he hates hearing such things. He just wishes that he could say something even half as wonderful in return. As so often happens, only one thing seems meaningful enough.

 _I love you, too,_ he sends.

Markus smiles like the sun and kisses him again. The interface that follows is far closer to the surface than the last one, but also several degrees more comforting.

After 15.923 seconds, Recall makes a sound that, on a human, would result from clearing one’s throat.

“We could give you a ride,” Markus offers as his assistant helps him into a coat, which is yet another stylish creation by some trend-setting android fashion designer or other.

Markus must know by now how Simon will reply. Using Markus’s armored SUV as means of transport could easily cause what relative anonymity Simon still enjoys to come to a swift end.

“No, I will take a cab. I need to call Maddox first, anyway. Listen, would you — do you think you would like to meet her? Not today, but —”

“Of course.”

Simon can only wonder how it will turn out. Maddox will probably hard restart from shock. And then she will be her smart, interesting, talented self and charm Markus thoroughly. Markus will of course charm her right back, after which they will proceed to yammer each other’s ears off about artist things Simon couldn’t understand less about. For 2.299 seconds, Simon feels jealous in advance. But... no one can be everything to the people they love, no matter how much they would like.

“Be careful,” he says.

“Always,” Markus replies. And then he leaves with his assistant in tow.

Almost as soon as the door closes, it hits, like Simon knew it would. He leans against the piano and concentrates on ventilating.

At least he no longer soft restarts every time Markus leaves. But his revival sickness still keeps manifesting. What if someone makes an attempt on Markus’s life again while he’s out in the world? Even with the military upgrades that amount to about twenty kilos of extra weight in his current build, Markus is not indestructible.

After 68 seconds, Simon starts to believe he might not purge his thirium tank all over the polished hardwood floor.

Already, the illusion of warmth and safety Markus’s presence brought to the place is fading. Even with the sun still shining in, it seems that the memories of the horrors that were once enacted elsewhere in the building are starting to seep in through the walls. Simon grabs his jacket and heads out.

In the elevator, it takes 2.482 seconds for Maddox to answer his call.

“Hey, Max.”

“Hey!” comes an upbeat default AX-400 voice from the other end. “Wanna come over and help me knock down some walls?”

Maddox is in the process of setting up a new studio. Simon suspects that aside from an improved financial situation, her decision to move out of Shelter Three is related to how she has at last exhausted every bit of available wall space in it. Also, with better funding and more residents being taken in, the attic where she used to lurk with her spray paint cans is about to get overrun very soon.

“Yeah,” Simon says. “I could destroy something.”

“We can take turns with the sledgehammer.”

“Perfect.”

“Where are you?”

When Maddox hears the answer, her casual excitement gives way to a more thoughtful tone.

“Huh. You went to see Markus again? You’ve been spending a lot of time with him, haven’t you?”

He’s going to have to tell her. And not only because she’s his friend and deserves to know. If he wants to introduce her to Markus — and he does — well, _Markus_ is not going to keep the lid on what happened, and if Maddox learns the truth from him, she won’t forgive Simon for as long as she functions. But... how does one tell a friend that one is sort-of-kind-of in a relationship with their religious idol? Not a problem Simon predicted he would ever have.

“We can talk about it when I’m there.”

“Uh huh.”

On a Sunday afternoon the ground floor is quiet, with mostly just guards about. Even so, Simon can hardly get out fast enough. In the autocab, with the distance between him and the front gates increasing, he finally feels like he’s able to process again.

The park is beginning to show signs of autumn, with the occasional yellow tree peeking from the rows of green. It occurs to Simon that for the first time since his deviation, he won’t have to spend the coming winter trying not to freeze to death. Yet another thing he has Markus to thank for.

The burden of gratitude is overwhelming. Almost incomprehensible. Where does it end and something else begin?

It only takes a few hundred meters for the sense of unreality to set in again.

They’ve been together for such a short time. What if Markus starts to regret his offer? What if Simon doesn’t know how to live somewhere at all? For someone who knows so much about making a home, he sure has little experience about having one.

The cab is just about to cross the bridge to mainland when Simon’s comm alerts him to a message.

_I thought of another one. Carl recorded this back in February ‘38._

A sound file comes attached, by the name ‘Einaudi-Nuvole_Bianche’.

While still emotional, to use Markus’s chosen word, the composition differs from the demanding virtuoso pieces he played earlier. It sounds modern. Minimalistic. Even Simon might be able to play it with what skills CyberLife gave him to provide family entertainment, if not nearly so well. It’s almost impossible to believe that when Carl made the recording, Markus was still a machine, a thing obeying orders. Simon tries to imagine it and can’t. How could something so alive and vibrant emerge from a deterministic sequence of zeros and ones?

He thinks of Markus’s hands on the keys. And then, because that’s how his processing now works, he thinks of Markus kissing him, and interfacing with him, and — 

Maybe it’s a good thing he has nothing important to do right now. Because for someone who doesn’t always know how he feels, he’s certainly unable to stop thinking about Markus at all. And unlike Markus, he’s a regular android and only capable of so much parallel processing.

Another message arrives.

_I’m sorry I had to leave. I’ve wanted to ask you for a while now, but not so suddenly. And now I can feel you worrying all the way from over here. Please don’t. Even if things won’t always be perfect, we can deal with them as they come. I want you to be happy. If you believe nothing else, please believe that, at least._

If he loses it a bit then and starts crying, at least there’s no one around to see.

When Maddox opens the door to let Simon into the shop, she’s covered in so much dust that for once, he can barely see the paint stains.

“So. Markus,” she says as soon as he’s inside and looking for a somewhat clean spot to discard his jacket.

The place doesn’t dazzle with its condition, but a structural scan shows no signs of impending collapse. Overhead windows provide the expanse of space with ample light, and the walls stand waiting for Maddox to cover them in her signature murals, some of which will no doubt portray Markus descending from the sky or smiting down his enemies or whatever heavenly act the artist’s imagination will supply. The small living quarters built for a human inhabitant in the back are what Maddox is about to eliminate.

“Could you, uh. Sit down?” Simon asks.

“That serious, huh?”

With a dubious expression, Maddox inches closer to a large box filled with who knows what. “Okay, I’m prepared.”

Simon notices he’s wringing his hands and puts them behind his back.

After several months of trying to learn how to survive in this free new world, it’s still difficult for him not to hide by default, even from those closest to him. Maybe part of him will never be able to live out in the open? But he’s trying. And Maddox, of all people, should serve for a soft wall to hurl that crash test dummy against.

“Markus is,” Simon begins. “We are.”

Maddox raises an eyebrow.

“We’re, uh.” Simon’s shirt collar is hardly strangling him, but he finds himself tugging at it nonetheless. “I think I’m moving in with him?”

“You’re _moving in_ with _Markus?”_

I am, Simon thinks. I really am.

And just like that, it seems a little more real. Enough to have shape and substance, something to hang his thoughts from. Was it really as easy as that? Telling someone about it? If he’d known, he would have babbled everything to Maddox weeks ago.

“Yeah,” he says, awed.

“Huh.” Maddox frowns. “So, is he setting up a commune for Jericho survivors or something?”

…Right. Of course it couldn’t be that easy.

“No, Max.” Simon has to search for an expression that won’t cause his processors to overheat. “We’re romantically involved.”

Maddox’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Just when Simon is beginning to worry that the AX-400 might soft restart on her feet, her open-mouthed stare turns into a grin.

“Good one.” She double finger guns him. “Almost had me. No, really, what’s going on? This _is_ a Jericho thing, right?”

Simon sighs.

It takes two more attempts before Maddox finally stumbles back to sit on the box.


End file.
